


Stomach It

by orphan_account



Category: Avengers (Marvel), Avengers (Movies), Captain America (Movies), Doctor Strange (movie), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Civil War Team Iron Man, IronStrange, Jessica hates Wanda, Multi, Natasha Romanoff is a Good Bro, Nebula is a guardian, The Cloak of Levitation ships it, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony and Jessica talk about mind control, not team Cap friendly, pro Accords, you can’t change my mind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-06-27 19:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15691482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The Ex-Avengers are back and expect everything to pretty much pick up where it left off.Tony’s new team may have something to say about that.





	1. Steve Rogers Is Confused

Steve almost thinks it might be worth it.

The last month, that is. Coming out of hiding. Being tossed around from prison to prison whilst the government tried to decide what to do with them. Being treated like criminals, like less than the scum of the earth by various lawyers and agents from various different countries, depending on which foreign country’s soil they were locked up on. Everywhere, from Wakanda to Russia to Germany, they are considered terrorists. At least until the pardons come in.

They come with catches, as Steve has learnt to expect from the government. Ten months of community service (to compensate for the ten months they spent in hiding), and they will have to pay damage control for the airport in Germany. They are also officially suspended by the Avengers until the revised Accords come to fruition. Steve, Clint and Wanda are all outraged, but the others seem to tale this news in stride. Scott in particular looked happy just to not be sitting in a jail cell. 

And two days ago, they came home.

The Compound looks different - more communal, is the word Steve would use. There are certainly more people bustling around now, and it’s difficult to tell which ones are part of the so-called ‘New Avengers’ and which aren’t; Steve supposes Tony is just handing out Avengers memberships like coupons now. What happened to earning your way onto the team? Was Tony doing it just to spite them - or, more specifically, him? He’d ask him, only the brunet seems to be going out of his way to avoid talking to him, ad Steve can’t help but feel irritated. He knows he’d undoubtedly made a mistake by not telling Tony about his parents, but he’d had almost a year to let it stew. Surely, _surely_ he couldn’t still blame Bucky, couldn’t still be angry at Steve for protecting his friend?

Anyway. If he’d thought maybe he and Tony could hash things out - put the past in the past, as it were - the last months of being treated like animals and juggled between foreign prisons like they were rather expensive cargo - were worth it.

When Steve finally _does_ see Tony, it’s on his fourth day back in the Compound. He hears the murmur of a voice in the next corridor over and goes to investigate, hovering at the doorway when he sees it’s Tony. As he watches the scene unfold, he’s not entirely sure how to feel, for three distinct reasons:

1) Tony looks dreadful. There’s no nice way to put it - the dark circles under his eyes look like actual bruises, his expensive suit is practically hanging off him, his generally well-groomed nails are bitten right down to the quick, surrounded by ugly, jagged skin where he’d apparently run out of nail to gnaw on. The man looks so exhausted it’s a wonder he doesn’t keel over.  
2) Tony is not alone. Standing with him, just close enough that Steve narrows his eyes a little, is a man with similar facial hair and some of the most bizarre attire Steve has ever seen. Over his suit, so deep a blue it would appear black in lesser light, is a cloak that sweeps his ankles, the deep red of wine that would stain a linen tablecloth. He is murmuring something, but is face looks carefully expressionless.  
3) Tony has his head tipped forward on the man’s shoulder in a gesture that looks worryingly familiar. His eyes are closed and he appears to be taking deep breaths, like he’s drawing comfort from the crook of this man’s neck, and the man, in turn, has one of his hands on Tony’s arm as if to steady him. The whole embrace appears so strangely intimate that Steve blushes like he’s walked in on two people in a passionate embrace.

 

The stranger’s mouth is still moving, and Steve watches as Tony appears to swallow, nod and straighten himself up. The hand doesn’t leave him arm, however, and Steve stares at it like he can’t quite work out what it is. Who on earth is this strange man? Steve glances at that red cloak again and suddenly, jarringly remembers the villain from _Thundercats_ , of all things (it was on his list of things to catch up on. He thinks Sam suggested it). All at once, he feels a rush of dislike for this man, a gut feeling that says he is trouble. It is that, and absolutely nothing else, thank you very much, that makes Steve clear is throat and make his presence known. 

The way Tony flinches, you’d think he’d fired a gun. His whole _body_ appears to briefly spasm, and he stares at Steve like he can’t quite work out if he’s really there. The irritation Steve priorly felt towards the man has caved in the presence of pity and concern. What could have happened to make Tony Stark - genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist, vibrant and full of life - this... shell? Steve shivers; for a moment, it is as though he can see right through the brunet. Like he’s a ghost.

The taller man in the cloak is staring at him. Is face is rather neutral, but something about him seems to _ooze_ dislike. He takes an almost imperceptibly small step forward, just enough to put himself in front of Tony. The smaller man turns away. His shoulders are trembling.

“Mr Rogers,” the cloaked man says. Much like his expression, is voice is fairly monotone, but Steve gets a glimpse of distaste in his deep tones. “It was my understanding the Ex-Avengers had been confined to the East Wing. In case you’re incapable of telling one side of the Compound from the other, and it truly wouldn’t surprise me if that were the case, this is the West Wing. You have no business here.”

Steve squares his shoulders. He’d dealt with men like this before. He’d admit, something about the man had thrown him at first, but as soon as he’d opened his mouth, that illusion cracked. He was just another smart-mouthed bully, thinking they could tell everyone where to go. With people like this, you simply had to refuse them the attention they craved. Looking straight past the man to the back of Tony’s head, Steve calls in his softest voice, “Tony. I was hoping we could talk.”

The brunet gives no indication that he’d head him. The cloaked stranger, however, rolls his dark eyes and mutters something about the super serum affecting his head. “You are not speaking to Anthony, you are speaking to me.”

“And who are you, exactly?” Steve snaps, tired of the man’s rudeness.

He arches an eyebrow in what was a clearly-practiced look of smug disdain. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I am Doctor Stephen Strange. Sorcerer Supreme.” One of his hands does a quick twirl to imitate a bow. He somehow even makes _that_ look mocking. Steve clenches his jaw.

“Look, Mr Strange-”

“ _Doctor_ Strange,” the so-called sorcerer interrupts, still with that irritating pleasant voice.

“Doctor Strange,” Steve amends quickly. “Me and Tony have a few things to sort out. We have a lot of history together, I’m sure you understand.”

“I understand, Mr Rogers,” Strange replies coolly, and is it Steve’s imagination, or is the sorcerer suddenly looking at him a lot more sharply? “I understand a lot more than you think. I understand that you left Anthony to die in a bunker in Siberia with no means of contacting anybody for help. I understand that he was unconscious for a week and barely brought back from the brink of death, courtesy of me. So yes, Rogers, I understand - that Tony has no inclination nor obligation to listen to anything you have to say.”

“Strange.” Tony has finally spoken up. His voice is hoarse and grating, but he puts a hand on the man’s cloaked shoulder. All at once, whatever little expression had been present in Strange’s face melted away, and he is once again left with a vaguely irritated neutral stance as Tony turns to face Steve.

Only, he doesn’t face Steve. He stares at the ground in Steve’s general direction, swallows, clears his throat, swallows again, and speaks, still in this weary, exhausted voice.

“Strange is right, Rogers. I don’t have to listen to a damn thing you have to say,” the brunet mutters. “Don’t ever think you can just come up to me and demand a conversatiom, because I can guarantee Strange’ll put your traitorous ass in the dark dimension quicker than you can say ‘sometimes my teammates don’t tell me things.’”

His words are strong and bold with a whisper of the old Tony Stark, but everything else is off. The dry voice with the cracks that makes it sound like he is going to sob at any given second, the way he is shaking while saying them, the way he resolutely won’t even look at Steve, the stranger Tony can only have known for nine months tops smirking slightly to himself to the man’s right. It feels like a crude parody of the life Steve had had only a year ago, and frankly, he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand any of it.

“I’m sorry, how long exactly have you known Tony?” It feels easier to address the sure-of-himself tall guy than the shrinking violet in front of him who visibly sags with relief when Steve stops looking at him. Strange rolls his eyes again.

“You’re not entitled to know anything about Anthony’s life, or mine for that matter. But if the burning desire to know truly does run so deep, I’ll tell you I’ve known him for five months.” His sharp, dark eyes flick up to stare Steve dead in the face. “Mr Rhodes asked me to come in to assess the possibility of any brain damage Anthony had taken away from Siberia.”

Tony winces again, and Steve notes that his index finger is nervously picking at the raw skin on his thumb. Steve stares at the brunet who is still resolutely not looking at him. “You’ve only known this man for _five months_?” he repeats in disbelief. He takes a step forward, maybe to put a hand on Tony’s shoulder in a comfortingly familiar gesture, implore him to see reason - because Tony has known Steve for _years_ , and here we is, letting this virtual stranger do all the talking for him - only for Tony to almost fall over in his haste to scramble backwards. Strange catches him deftly by the arm and straightens him. He murmurs something else that Steve cannot hear, and Tony nods and, without a word or even a backward glance, he turns around and walks, with what seems to be a controlled steady pace that makes it look like he is trying not to run, through the door at the end of the corridor and out of sight.

Angry now, Steve turns to Strange. “I just wanted to talk to him!”

“Well, Anthony didn’t want to talk to you,” Strange counters deftly. He looks a little tired all of a sudden. “I know that respecting his boundaries is rather a new concept for you all, but as long as I’m here it’s something you’ll have to get used to.”

“What I and Tony talk about is none of your business,” Steve argues, furious that this man, this _stranger_ has inserted himself between Steve and Tony so boldly, like he actually belongs there. 

“Oh, but it is my business, Rogers,” Strange snaps, and for the first time, his composure seems to crack and Steve catches a glimpse of the quiet fury sparking in the man’s dark eyes. “Anthony Stark is under my protection. What goes through him goes through me.”

“Tony doesn’t need protection from us!”

“Tell that to his collapsed lung, internal bleeding, five broken ribs and multiple hairline fractures you are your BFF left him with when you left him to die.” Strange takes a step forward. He is just slightly shorter than Steve, but at this moment, he feels like an equal, power radiating off him in simmering waves that maybe would cow a lesser man - but he is Captain America for goodness’ sake, and so he doesn’t back down.

“Stay away from Anthony,” Strange says, his voice quiet but sharp, each word controlled and poisonous. “Or I promise, you’ll have more than me to answer to.” 

Before Steve can say a word, Stange turns abruptly with a flick of his cloak and follows Tony’s footsteps briskly, through the door and out of sight.

Steve finds he’s been holding his breath as the door clicks softly shut behind him.


	2. A Look Into Tony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise the action will start next chapter!

The first month after Siberia, Tony Stark is a ghost.

A numb, shuffling zombie, locking himself away in the Tower and refusing to be seen in public. The press was going nuts. Rhodes had actually apprehended a reporter trying to break in via the window cleaner. Only a select two people had seen Tony during that time - Rhodes himself, of course, him being the only thing that could coax the man to eat and sleep, and Pepper, who seemed unable to find a thing to say to him but gladly sat with him for hours, which kind of made Tony feel like he was on suicide watch, but he drew comfort from her presence all the same. Others - numerous doctors, physiotherapists, Happy Hogan, Helen Cho - caught glimpses of the man once or twice during their copious visits, but he was just a flash of dark hair going round a corner, the stink of booze hovering behind him. 

Rhodey finds Tony in a closet, hyperventilating into one of his mother’s winter coats.

“Jeez, Tony,” he murmurs, sweeping clothes aside to reach the brunet curled up amongst the leather boots. He is in a foetal position, curling into himself, curling into the scents of unwashed laundry and sour whiskey, nails skating up and down his own arms until they are all over in red scratches, like he’s trying to ground himself. Rhodey steps in gingerly. He means to pull Tony out, but when he sticks out a hand to right him, Tony just clings to it, and suddenly Rhodes finds himself pulled down, a stiletto heel digging into his back with a lapful of Tony.

“God, man,” he swears under his breath as his hand goes out awkwardly, one around Tony’s shoulders and the other combing his unwashed hair. “Hey,” he soothes. “You gotta come out, man, alright?”

“Nah,” the anxious mess in his lap croaks. “Not yet. Like it in here.”

It’s his mother’s closet. When Tony finally faced clearing the house after Howard and Maria died, he put all of his mother’s things in his car and drove them to his place, then went back, stuffed all of Howard’s things into a trash bag and had Happy drive it to the tip. Rhodey had personally helped a half-drunk Tony hang his mother’s pressed coats, ironed dresses and soft cashmere sweaters up in the overlarge wardrobe and arrange her shoes in neat rows on the wooden floor. He came here for comfort, sometimes, or often just to remember her. It had become something of a shrine over the years, with photos and newspaper clippings taped to the inside of the doors like a high school kid’s locker.

“I know you do man,” whispers Rhodey. “But we gotta talk about this.”

“Can’t,” Tony murmurs. “Don’t make me, buddy. Just stay.”

Rhodey stays. Tony sleeps. He dreams. He wakes clawing at his chest. Rhodey calms him. Tony sleeps.

He dreams.

 

The sixth month after Siberia, Tony Stark is better.

Not _healthy_ \- but the man’s never exactly been the pinnacle of health, and Rhodey doesn’t think the guy’s ever been 100% happy even before the December of 1991, but he reckons Tony’s as close to it as he’s going to get. He has another friend, a PI he picked up off the streets of New York with a hard face and leather jackets who loves classic rock as much as he does. Tony adores her almost as much as her rather terrifying boyfriend, also from New York. Rhodey often entertains the idea that he could put Captain Jackass flat on his ass if he wanted to. Jessica Jones and Luke Cage become full-time Avengers within a month, and Tony quietly reduces his booze intake.

Carol and Hope come next. Tony is surprised with the latter, considering her father’s hatred of Howard and Tony himself, and he’s wary when he meets her because her stares are sharp in a way that reminds him of Natasha - but there’s not nearly so many layers to Hope Van Dyne as there are to Natalia Romanova, and Tony lets himself rely on her, just a little, and the rooms stop smelling of cigarettes as much as they did when Hope was a stranger. Carol is odd and wonderful, and there’s strength in her gazes and her words that Tony seems to soak up when he’s with her. It’s Rhodey’s turn to be wary because she is a blonde Captain and that didn’t seem to work so well last time - but she and Tony click. She is sharp and witty when he is, and soft and warm when he needs her to be. Carol Danvers signs on as a full-time Avenger and the coffee machine stops needing refilling four times a day. 

Then Stephen Strange arrives at the scene and Rhodey catches the look Tony gives him immediately, because fucking hell is this guy ever pretty. He is utterly unlike any man Rhodes has ever met before, soft-spoken and monotone with his big words that makes him sound like he just stepped out of a goddamn Game of Thrones book, but when the emotion comes it is so strong it almost cracks him in two. He is warm with Tony in strange ways, placing a hand atop of his when the Rogues appear on the news, talking him down from any forthcoming panic attacks gently and firmly. Rhodey does not like the dude at first, he’ll admit, because the last time Tony fell so quickly for a guy, he ended up with vibranium buried in his chest, but the Sorcerer Supreme is not Steve, and it shows because the guy _likes_ being around Tony, will gladly put time aside to listen to him. Stephen Strange joins the Avengers and FRIDAY gradually stops alerting Rhodey that Tony is having panic attacks at three in the morning.

More come - other worlders that call themselves the Guardians, who are pretty cool. They only pop in every three months or so, busy saving the universe and all, but they’re Avengers in all but name. Rocket the raccoon has a great time prowling Tony’s labs and picking out bits of tech he finds impressive, Gamora spars with Carol in the common area, Groot stretches his limbs through doors and everyone has to watch their step for two weeks, Nebula glowers in a corner and eats all of Tony’s food, Drax smashes anything he thinks is attacking him, Quill tunes into the news, and Mantis sits assertively but happily in a corner and watches the mayhem unfold. When they arrive, Tony is so pleased he immediately drops the work he’s been sitting with for sixteen solid hours, and Rhodey quietly carries it out of sight.

( but there are still nights when Tony catches a blond head in a crowd or the Rogues appear on the news without warning, and Tony disappears for hours and Rhodey finds him in his mother’s closet or beneath one of the desks in his labs. He’s drunk himself into a stupor and he’s either completely out of it or an anxious, emotional mess, and Rhodey sleeps wedged in a cupboard or on a hard floor because he can’t get Tony to move. He doesn’t complain about the back pains the next morning but Tony feels so guilty he can’t look at him for at least three days. )

But they are fewer than they were just three months ago, and the team never turns a blind eye like Rhodey knows the old guys would’ve. Luke brings Tony’s meds to his bedside and Strange brings him strange herbal teas. He claims they have healing properties. Tony says tea is just hot flavoured water and if Strange wants to see _real_ healing properties he should come back with an espresso. Strange tells him to drink the damn thing before he makes him. Tony obliges. 

( he’ll never admit it, least of all to Strange, but he finds they do help, a little. They make his head clear and his stomach warm. A little like Strange himself. )

 

Nine months after Siberia, it all comes crashing down around Tony Stark’s ears.

The Rogues come out of hiding. He is blindsided by the news when all of their faces appear on-screen without warning. Hope switches the channel sharply, but already Tony’s hands are shaking so badly he has to slam his mug on the counter before he drops it. He keels against the marble, taking deep breaths, waiting for the tightness in his throat, for his vision to become too bright, for his lungs to prickle like they’re full of vinegar rather than oxygen. But it doesn’t happen. His heart is racing and there’s sweat coming through his tattered old Black Sabbath shirt and his fingers are scrabbling for a hold on the edge of the counter, but the fuse doesn’t strike, and the bomb doesn’t go off. Once it becomes apparent he isn’t spiralling down into a full-blown anxiety attack, Jessica darts forward and takes his hand.

“Remember what we do?” she asks in her softest voice, and he nods, head a little fuzzy. He thinks he remembers. “Say it with me. Rhodes. Jones. Cage. Strange. Quill. Rhodes, Jones, Cage, Strange, Quill.”

He repeats the mantra obediently, feels his frantic heartbeat stammer in his chest and begin to slow. He draws in a full breath and lets out a controlled exhale. It’s alright. It’s fine. He’s here, in his Compound he built himself, and the Rogues are in a different continent, and his family is here, right here, if he turns around he’ll see them, eyes alight with concern. 

“You alright, Stark?” Strange breaks the silence. His voice sounds tight. Concerned? Tony nods.

“I’m good.”

“That’s great,” Carol says, and he doesn’t have to look round to see the pleased smile on her face. “Tony, that’s _great_!”

“Yeah. I am a little,” he manages, and Jessica rolls her dark eyes and Tony feels the tension slip out of his body, turning round to face the rest of the team. 

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Hope calls over from the couch. “I didn’t realise... I should’ve known already. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s good. I’m good, see?” He grins, and the best part is, he means it. He _is_ fine. He knows even then it’s paper thin, putting a bandaid over a stab wound and waiting for it to heal, but he indulges. For the minute. He reckons he’s owed that. 

But as the month wears on, the Rogues are everywhere. You can’t turn on the TV without seeing Rogers’ face plastered over the screen, can’t leave the building without seeing Maximoff or Barton slapped on a newspaper, can’t cross the street without Barnes or Wilson or Romanoff glaring at him from a display in a store, and every time he sees them there’s vibranium in his chest again and it’s cold and he’s alone and he’s _dying._

And as the Rogues go to court and the trials wear on, the booze starts disappearing again and the coffee supply runs dry in three days and Rhodey is woken by FRIDAY at 3:19 in the morning with the news that Tony is hyperventilating in his lab. None of the team quite know what to say; they have never seen a man fall apart so spectacularly, so quickly. Rhodey and, surprisingly, Stephen seem to be the only ones who can reach Tony when he’s in these states. The sorcerer is so good at coaxing Tony out the bottom of a bottle or into bed that Rhodey lets him know of his mother’s closet and the desks in his lab. Over the course of the month, they prop him up, and if they aren’t always enough, the others are only too willing to help. It makes Tony want to cry, truthfully, because he knows that with his old team, they’d have him fall flat on his back onto cold, hard granite and shout at him for falling.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

When the Rogues receive their pardons, and Tony is told they are coming back to live at the Compound - _his_ Compound that he built himself, his bolthole where his family live - he swallows it down like a good healthy dose of Thorazine and nods. He works with Carol and Hope to set up protocols to keep them away from him. Another bandaid on a stab wound, because if he knows the Rogues, and he does, they won’t stop until they talk to him. They’ll feel they’re owed it, as if he owes them anything. By the time he watches the jet land outside and the Rogues step out, he is more angry than scared - but anger is a deteriorate as much as anxiety, and his meals grow fewer and smaller and his sleeps grow shorter and, though it’s actually been three weeks since his last panic attack, he keeps verging on them, like when you’re going to sneeze but can’t quite manage it. His throat tightens and his vision flares and his cheeks go hot - but then they gradually fade and Tony is left with a racing heart and a half-hearted wish that he could just get it _over_ with.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

Well. Be careful what you wished for, he thought bitterly. He is in a conference room unable to draw breath and Strange is talking to him but none of it is registering.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

And all because Steve Rogers can’t obey protocols. _Well,_ Stephen Strange thinks furiously as he tries to get a grip on a man who is trembling so hard he appears to be seizing. 

_That never was one of his strong suits._


	3. Natasha Is Fed Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha silently reflects on what they’ve done and wonders if her teammates will ever grow up. Strange pays a visit, Jessica is done with the Rogues, and Clint just wants a shower.

Natasha does a thing when she’s bored.

It’s a reflex, almost, springing to the forefront of her mind when she’s not distracted by anything else, a reflex she forged unintentionally in both the Red Room and with SHIELD. She takes one look at someone - the lines of their face, if their hands are shaking or not, the tenseness in their shoulders or lack thereof - and deduces their mood, and assigns a colour to it. As aforementioned, it wasn’t a conscious decision. Silent and watchful in a chair in the farthest corner of the room, half-bored and half-assertive, her sharp green eyes find Steve, shoulders taught and brow contracted and pacing as if he’d like to wear a hole in the floor, and a cool blue-grey flashes in her mind’s eye. Her eyes catch Scott, who strains for even glimpses of his ex-girlfriend on the news, catches the insistent drumming of his fingers on his thigh, and an anxious orange tints her vision. She glimpses Wanda, who grows more restless by the day, glimpses the dark glint in her eye when Tony comes on the television, who uses her magic to spread butter on her toast, and bright red flashes before her eyes - not rose red, or Christmas red, but warning red. Natasha doesn’t trust her anymore - if she is a spider, Wanda is a cat, sleek and lovely-looking with poisonous eyes and sharp claws beneath the tufts of soft hair. 

But the _collective_ mood - the one that hangs over the group like a tangible mist - is grey. Grey and thick and hopeless. 

(Natasha doesn’t know when she started saying ‘group’ instead of ‘team’. She only knows that they aren’t a team anymore, maybe haven’t been for a while, and isn’t that just the way? The Red Room, SHIELD, the Avengers, all crumbling to dust before her very eyes, and she wonders, oh, in her dark lonely bedroom where she doesn’t sleep, she wonders which establishment they can pollute and quietly destroy with hollow moral words next).

The world is grey. They can’t leave the room. The fridge hasn’t been restocked in a week and the milk’s gone off and Clint is _oozing_ a dark crimson aura because he can’t have cereal in the mornings anymore. He wonders when Tony is going to rush in and fix it like he always does. Natasha quietly thinks they’ll be lucky to ever see the man in the flesh again.

“Jesus _Christ_!” the archer rages now, stumbling out of the bathroom with a towel about his waist and the sound of running water emitting from the open door behind him. “There’s no more goddamn hot water!”

Sam, a firm grey who is extremely fed up at this point, groans and pushes his head back against the wall. “How long’s Stark gonna keep this up?”

“Probably for the rest of his miserable life,” Wanda replies icily, but her eyes are glazed, focused on the moth in the corner of the room that is sparkling with a strange scarlet glow. Nat watches impassively as it twitches and keens and throws itself into the wall, before Wanda apparently gets bored and both of it’s wings are ripped clean from it’s body with a precision that’s unnervingly surgical, and the witch turns to share a disgusted look with Clint. The latter snorts.

“Whatever, man.” He stomps back into the bathroom and comes out in his clothes. The sound of the shower has stopped. “One more day of this, and I don’t care how many time-out chairs Stark puts me on, I’m taking this up with him myself.”

“It was a write-up, not a time-out chair,” Steve corrects needlessly from his place on the couch. “I wasn’t supposed to be in the West Wing.”

“We hadn’t seem Stark in four days!” Wanda counters angrily. “You had to talk to him, make him see reason. It’s not our fault he decided to act like a child about it.” She sniffs forcefully, and the moth’s body on the ground twitches.

“Wanda’s right,” Sam interjects. “We have to sort this thing out, it’s getting ridiculous. S’like we’re not even Avengers anymore.”

“We’re not.” Natasha speaks for the first time, and all eyes turn to her - some confused, some angry, some incredulous. All grey. “Technically speaking. Our places on the Avengers Initiative were made redundant eight months ago, while we were in Wakanda.”

“ _What?_ ” Clint snaps, and Natasha tries not to roll her eyes. “Jesus, when I thought Stark couldn’t get any fucking pettier-”

“It wasn’t Stark,” Natasha interrupts quietly. “He doesn’t have any control over the Avengers. It was a decision made by the United States government, the week we were charged for everything that happened. We’re on probation right now - three write-ups and we’re out.”

There’s a brief, pregnant pause, during which Steve looks thoroughly confused, Wanda’s mouth closes abruptly, and Scott worries the skin of his lip with his teeth. Natasha doesn’t want to take satisfaction of the stumped looks on their faces, but she does, just a little. Clint rolls his eyes.

“This is giving me a headache,” he grumbles, sloping over to the kitchen. “Stark gift us with any good stuff in here?”

“Cupboard over the stove,” Sam calls. The cupboard is stuffed with an amount of drugs that Stark believably could have robbed a pharmacy to get, but Natasha’s eyes automatically slide over the strong colours to slip under the shadows, and her eyes catch a black box shoved to the back of the top shelf. Clint riffles through a mix of over-the-counter tablets and prescription meds that could tranquillise a cow, but then his head cocks with interest, and he stretches up, and he slides the black box off the top shelf and stares at it inquisitively. 

“Whatcha got there?” Steve calls over, and Clint shrugs.

“Dunno. Harder stuff, maybe?” He carries the box over, and, this being perhaps the most interesting thing to happen for eight solid days, everyone leans forward to catch a glimpse as Clint pries off the lid.

Inside sit three empty orange prescription bottles, gathering dust and rattling around loosely. A shining scarlet noose wraps tight around one, and Wanda flicks it over, catching it deftly in one hand and turning it to examine the label. “Normison?”

Sam whistles lowly. “Temazepam. It’s for insomnia. I was prescribed it after I got back - from the war, you know, but my doctor took me off it after a couple months. Apparently I was becoming too dependent. It’s strong stuff, though. Wonder who it’s for.”

“Well, there’s plenty new people nesting up here,” Steve replies with just a hint of disapproval. “Could be anyone’s who stayed in this room.”

Clint rolls another orange tube in his hands. “This one says Valium. That’s anxiety and shit, right?”

“Uh-huh,” Scott affirms. “What’s the other one?”

“Aventyl,” Sam reads out. “PTSD, mostly. Riley had a stash in his pillowcase for a while.” He suddenly looks unnerved. “Maybe we shouldn’t be going through this stuff. It’s personal shit.”

“Whoever’s it is can’t be that bothered, or they wouldn’t have left it for anyone to find,” Wanda cuts in. “Besides, it’s not like we know whose it is.” 

Sam declines to answer this. “Just take your aspirin, Clint, and put that back where you found it.” Clint huffs, but obediently shoves the three bottles back in the box and returns it to the top shelf. Everyone slumps back on their chairs (but Natasha stays straight-backed, always alert when she doesn’t want to be like there’s a steel pole holding her up from the inside). The low hum of the television becomes the lone sound in the room. There is a pop and crackle of a blister packet being pushed as Clint frees an aspirin. Steve and Scott are staring at the television, Wanda has returned her attention to the disembodied moth and is making it sweep the length of the wall, Sam looks at the ceiling with a glazed, troubled look and Clint’s arms are braced on the kitchen counter, his back to all of them. The interest has seeped away. The grey returns, denser than ever, and Natasha is wondering if they’ll even be able to see each other through this colourless mist by the time this is over when, like a lighthouse beam through sea fog, a burning circlet opens up in the middle of the room and a man and a woman step out.

The is Doctor Strange, but Natasha and Steve seem to be the only ones who place him. She recalls Steve’s description - “this man dressed like a - I don’t know - those wizards from that movie. He had the cape and everything,” - and the man before her is tall and graceful-looking with the swoop of his jaw and the curve of his cheekbones and his long, slender body, clad in dark-blue robes and a cloak so brilliantly red it puts Wanda’s powers to shame. He surveys them all impassively, even as Sam and Scott yell out in shock and Wanda leaps to her feet, magic spitting like a fire’s dying embers through her fingers. The woman beside him is shorter but definitely colder, dark hair curling round her shoulders, dark clothes glaring and bold beside Strange’s mixed attire, and dark eyes flicking over each of them with growing distaste. By the time she looks at Wanda, she is practically seething.

Neither of them speak, but Strange turns abruptly round and reached back through what Natasha assumes is a portal. He turns back with three bulging plastic bags hanging from his arms, which he drops unceremoniously on the ground before them.

“Groceries,” he states in a curt, one-word explanation. And there’s a card in there that will renew your hot water for another three weeks. After that, you’ll be expected to pay.”

“Pay?” Steve frowns, and the dark-haired woman audibly scoffs and rolls her eyes unabashedly.

“Yes, Mr Rogers, pay, like every other good American citizen with a residence,” Strange replies, voice somehow patient and entirely fed up. “Your food isn’t free. Your hot water isn’t free. Your electricity isn’t free. Everyone here has to pay their due.”

“We never had to pay before,” Steve counters stubbornly. “If this is Tony’s way of getting back at us, then-”

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” the dark-haired woman snaps. “In what privileged over-glorified Sims game of a life is paying your rent a punishment?”

“We don’t have jobs, lady,” Clint snaps through clenched teeth. “What are we paying with?”

“Everything’s free ‘till you’re back doing field work, which will be in under a month if you pass your evaluations. If you fail, however-” Strange clicks his tongue somewhat mockingly, “- you’ll have to get a job ‘till you can retake them.”

“Hold on - we haven’t been told jack shit about evaluations,” Sam pipes up roughly. “What does that mean? And what _jobs?_ ”

“Three tests,” the dark-haired woman snaps. “Takes more than having powers to get you on the team these days. Can’t risk a group, oh say, going rogue and becoming wanted felons.” She kisses her teeth. “Bad publicity, y’know?”

“What Jessica said. And as for your jobs, there are plenty going round the Compound,” Strange continues curtly. “The engineering department is always in want of new faces, Mr Lang, and I daresay Mr Wilson’s airforce experiences will be of some use.”

“And what about us?” Wanda snaps. “We just - what? Get kicked off?”

“Yeah, you might be out of luck,” the Jessica replies, and Natasha watches silently, notes that she is looking Wanda dead in the eye without an ounce of fear. “They don’t offer degrees in mind rape.”

Wanda’s eyes flash, and she makes forward even as Steve calls her name sharply - and in a second Jessica has one of Wanda’s arms twisted behind her back, her long, slender fingers brushing the gap between her shoulder blades. Wanda’s gasp is of shock, not pain - it’s not close enough to hurt, but it’s close enough to make her afraid, and Wanda’s other hand is alive with seething scarlet magic but Jessica doesn’t even budge. 

“Please,” Jessica breathes. “Give me an excuse, witch.”

“Jessica.” Strange touches her shoulder lightly, and the brunette gives Wanda one last harsh glare before yanking her hold from her arm. The witch stars at her with something akin to horror as she returns to Strange’s side, and furious red blooms before Natasha’s eyes as her eyes flit over Jessica’s clenched fists and shaking shoulders.

“We’ll be going now,” Strange addresses the group. “If you have any questions, you can schedule a meeting with us.”

“Or don’t,” Jessica adds in a mumble, but Strange just gives her a firm look as the two them turn and step back through the portal.

Natasha could swear his cloak gives them a mocking little wave behind Strange’s back as the portal closes swiftly behind them, the only relic to it’s existence the amber sparks drifting to the floor and the haze of smoke that drifts upwards, over their heads and out of sight.


End file.
